


His Soul Like The Sun

by REVVIII



Series: Promises [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: A lil bit of PTSD thrown in for both of them, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, But at least he's self-aware about it, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Except when Jaskier gets very hard very quickly, Fluff and Angst, Geralt is an idiot, Lots of it, M/M, Neck Kissing, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, THEY'RE BOTH SO SOFT, They have different love languages, What Will It Take For Geralt To Tell Jaskier He Loves Him, but they're dumb and haven't figured it out yet, if you know what i mean ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REVVIII/pseuds/REVVIII
Summary: It's a year after Jaskier has recovered from almost dying and he and Geralt are still traveling together. And fucking. A lot. Geralt is usually okay with seeing the scar across Jaskier's belly now, the brutal reminder of what they had gone through, but someone threatens to hurt Jaskier again and now Geralt can't stop thinking about losing him.And yet, he still hasn't told Jaskier he loves him--not in those words, anyway. And this makes Jaskier sad.Geralt fixes this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Promises [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615114
Comments: 40
Kudos: 1700





	His Soul Like The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone for all the support! Here's part 2, as requested. If part 1 was basically a summary of "what will it take for Geralt to apologize to Jaskier," part 2 is essentially an exploration of "what will it take for Geralt to tell Jaskier he loves him". Hope y'all enjoy!

It was a year after Jaskier had almost died. The bard had a new lute, and he strummed on it lightly as they traveled. Jaskier was always on horseback now, whether Geralt also rode or walked beside him to give Roach a break, because Geralt didn’t want to risk the bard being ambushed and hurt like before. This new song was dedicated to Roach, for, as Jaskier put it when Geralt looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “shouldering the burden of one very large, if sexy, man and one slightly smaller man on her back over many miles of rough terrain.”

A good enough reason to write a song as any, and Geralt thought he liked this song better than others since it gave his very good horse some much due credit. Roach seemed to appreciate it too, and didn’t even protest that much every time both men sat in the saddle.

Work had been good. There had been monsters aplenty for Geralt to kill, and the inns and taverns always welcomed songs of the White Wolf. Nights were filled with clamors for tales of their adventures, of the monsters fallen under Geralt’s sword, of narrowly escaped death—at least when Geralt didn’t take Jaskier’s wrist and pull him up to their room to fuck, sometimes for hours.

They could afford those nights of luxury, of bliss, of pleasure. Geralt loved to see the bard writhe and shudder under him, loved the soft moans and pants he could pull from his throat. Jaskier flushed beautifully, cheeks pink and lips red and eyes bright, and Geralt felt an ache in his chest that wasn’t quite pain; it was hotter than that, and stronger, and he didn’t want the feeling to end but it still scared him a little bit.

He wasn’t used to caring. Not this much, anyway.

He wasn’t used to loving.

They stopped by a small town on the seaward outskirts of Redania one day; Roach was tired after a long slew of monster-hunting, and they planned to give her a few days’ good rest before continuing their travels.

“Go check for rooms, I’ll look at the stables,” Geralt grunted as they dismounted outside a nice-looking inn. That was routine for them now; it saved time and energy, and Geralt was never away long enough that anything bad could really happen to the bard.

Except this time, apparently.

Jaskier wasn’t there when Geralt walked in, several minutes after taking the gear off the mare and wiping her down. He frowned; the inn was fairly crowded and busy, but not so much that he couldn’t hear some commotion happening in the other room. His frown deepened as he headed over—and the blood in his veins turned to fire.

A man was holding Jaskier up against a wall, face blotchy red with rage as he yelled at the bard, who was white-faced and shaking. “You mongrel! You good-for-nothing son of a bitch, you slept with my daughter! I remember you, don’t you fucking deny it, I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life and I won’t even regret it!”

“Please,” Jaskier was saying, his voice high and terrified. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was just looking for a room—”

“Shut it!” the man yelled, punching the bard in his stomach; Jaskier yelped, doubling over, and the man punched him again. “You’re just back to come after my daughter again, I know about vermin like you—”

“Leave off,” Geralt snapped, storming over, and he was drawing his sword already because he was _furious_ , anger coursing through his veins and lending a shake to his hands that would never have been there before. The other people in the room had quieted, turning around to see what was going on, but Geralt didn’t care that he was drawing attention, not now, because he could barely see with rage.

The man released Jaskier immediately, spat on the ground. “What’s this to you, Witcher? Thought you were above petty squabbles amongst humans?”

Geralt bared his teeth, _snarled_. “The bard is _mine_.”

The man’s eyes widened for a moment. “Look, Witcher, this no-good bastard—”

Geralt snarled again, took another step forward, and he wanted to _hurt_.

“Fine, fine! This…man…slept with my daughter two years ago. He _defiled_ her. I just want him to be properly punished—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want or what he did. You can fuck off right now if you want to keep your throat intact,” Geralt hissed. “And if you so much as look his way again I’ll properly separate your head from your shoulders.”

The man took a look at Geralt’s sword held threateningly between him and the bard, paled, turned and fled.

Geralt turned to Jaskier as soon as he was out of sight. The bard had slid down to the floor hugging his knees to his chest, eyes wide and unfocused, fingers trembling, and he reeked of fear.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly. The bard didn’t respond; Geralt wasn’t sure if he’d heard him, but he was terrified and Geralt didn’t want to spook him by touching him.

“Jaskier,” he said again, a little more loudly, and the bard seemed to snap out of a trance.

“Geralt!” he said. “There’s, ah, two rooms left open, I was just on my way to let you know—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, kneeling in front of the bard, eyes searching. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier hesitated, swallowed, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, of course I’m okay.” He gave Geralt a smile, but it was weak and tremulous, and his words were empty.

Geralt reached out hesitantly, waiting for Jaskier to flinch away, touched his cheek gently when he didn’t. “Is that the truth?”

Jaskier swallowed again. His eyes were glistening. “I’m…I’m—”

“Come here,” Geralt murmured, and he pulled Jaskier in close to his chest, heedless of watching eyes, of curious stares wondering about the Witcher cradling a bard in his arms. Jaskier was trembling, shaking so hard he could barely breathe, and Geralt wrapped an arm around his waist to support him as they stood.

“Where are we…what’s happening? The rooms are that way,” Jaskier said, as Geralt walked firmly past the staircase and towards the door.

“We’re not staying here,” Geralt said.

“Wait—why? I’ve already paid—”

“I’ll kill an extra monster and earn it back,” Geralt said. “I’m not having you stay here tonight.”

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Jaskier said, very unconvincingly.

“He hurt you,” Geralt snarled, and his heart ached when Jaskier flinched.

“It’s…it’s not that bad,” Jaskier said quietly, but he let Geralt lead him to the stables, helped him as he saddled up Roach with an apologetic pat. “Doesn’t even really hurt. It was more in my head than anything.” He swallowed. “You know, about…about last time.”

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Yes, he remembered last time. He remembered it all too well, and that was why he’d been so angry; he’d known the man hadn’t been holding a dagger today, but for a moment he’d seen one anyway, plunging into soft, vulnerable flesh, slicing the bard open until he bled to death on the floor, twisting the knife inside him, hurting him, _killing_ him—

Jaskier stood in the corner now, looking very small, both arms wrapped protectively around himself. But he was alive; he wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t dying.

“Up,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier climbed gingerly into the saddle. Geralt mounted up behind him, held the reins in one hand while the other slipped protectively around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier let out a shuddering breath, leaning back against Geralt’s chest.

“You really lived up to the wolf back there,” Jaskier murmured as Roach’s pace quickened to a trot, and Geralt knew he was trying to lighten the mood. “Bared teeth and snarls and everything. Could’ve even sworn your hair stood on end.”

Geralt tilted his head down to press a kiss to Jaskier’s jaw. “Would’ve ripped him apart, too.”

Jaskier chuckled; Geralt felt it against his chest. “I don’t think that will be necessary. You scared him off pretty well.”

“Mm. Nevertheless,” Geralt said.

“We’d better actually find another inn,” Jaskier said, twisting to look back at Geralt. “I don’t want to sleep on the ground, and I doubt you do either. And Roach would benefit very nicely from some nice fresh hay and carrots and somewhere warm and dry. So if we don’t find another inn—”

“We’ll find another inn,” Geralt said gruffly.

They did, actually, find another inn, which Geralt was a bit surprised by in a town this small, not that he would ever admit it to the bard. And it was a _nice_ inn, too, just meters from the shore, and their room opened up directly to a small private cove. The stables were perhaps not quite as impressive as the previous inn’s, but they were more than adequate, and Roach seemed pleased enough as they dismounted and led her to her stall—together, this time, because Geralt didn’t want to let Jaskier out of his sight just yet.

“You do a lot for me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, as Geralt slid the saddle off the mare’s back for the second time that evening.

Geralt just grunted.

“I mean it,” Jaskier said. “And it’s…well, I appreciate it. Very much. And I try to do the same for you, but of course, you’re a Witcher and I’m a…bard.”

Geralt took the bridle off, hung it on a hook, looked at him. “What are you saying, Jaskier?”

Jaskier looked nervous; he shrugged, fidgeted with his hands. “Well, you know me, always following you around everywhere you go. And I can keep up now, I’m still young. It’s not that big a problem. And I love it, Geralt, I want to keep doing this. I want to stay with you forever. But I’m…I’m not like you. No matter what happens, I’ll always be…different.”

“You’ll always be human,” Geralt said quietly. “And I’ll always be a Witcher.”

Jaskier swallowed. His gaze darted around nervously, never meeting Geralt’s eyes. “Someday you’re going to have to leave me because I can’t keep up anymore,” he said. “I’ll get old and wrinkly and rickety and I’ll only be a liability, and you can’t be looking after me all the time, so you’ll…” He broke off, took a shuddering breath, spoke again. “Someday, finding another inn to stay is going to be the least you’ll have to do for me.”

Geralt frowned, felt an ache in his chest. “Jaskier,” he said softly. “I won’t leave you behind.”

“You’re a Witcher,” Jaskier said. “You need to travel to work.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’ll…take a break,” he said. “Whenever you need to.” He paused. “And if anything, you’re the human. You’re most likely the one to be leaving me, unless I fuck up and get killed first.” He winced; that was _not_ how he intended it to come out.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Jaskier said, suddenly fierce, and Geralt shouldn’t possibly have been able to feel threatened by him, but there was a shake to Jaskier’s voice that scared him, because it meant Jaskier was scared, and Geralt hated that.

“Don’t you dare get yourself killed,” Jaskier said again. “Promise me.”

“Jaskier—”

“ _Promise me_.”

He was holding Geralt’s gaze now, and his voice trembled but his eyes were steady, bright and determined.

Geralt let out a breath. “I promise,” he said.

There was a long moment of silence. “Good,” Jaskier said finally, and then he smiled, and it was like everything was alright in the world again. He glanced at Roach, munching contentedly on a mouthful of fresh hay, and his smile turned mischievous. “You know, Geralt, I envy her sometimes. I mean, I’m not sure she’s really aware of the passage of time. What do you think?”

Roach glared at him, snorted, stomped her foot.

“I think she’s likely to try and buck you off the next time you ride her if you keep insulting her intelligence,” Geralt said.

Jaskier looked at the mare in horror. “She wouldn’t!”

Roach snorted again and flicked her ear, but didn’t protest as Jaskier stroked her neck. The bard was still smiling, eyes soft and cheeks a gentle pink, and he seemed to be satisfied with Geralt’s promise for now, his assurances that he would stay with Jaskier until the end of his days.

But that was it, wasn’t it? “The end of his days.” And those would come soon enough; a human lifespan was barely a blink in the eyes of a Witcher. Jaskier was right; he’d get old and white and frail—because Geralt be damned if he let anything happen to Jaskier before then—and then he’d fade away, and Geralt would still look the same as ever, but he’d be alone.

He shouldn’t care. It was safer— _easier_ —not to care, and so for decades, he hadn’t. But Jaskier had changed all of that, sung and strummed his way through the hardened walls of Geralt’s heart, and Geralt wouldn’t ever leave him despite the eternity of pain that he knew would follow his passing.

“Let’s get dinner,” Jaskier announced, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts. “I’m hungry, and it smells _delicious_ in there.”

It did, in fact, smell delicious, and when they went inside and dinner was served it tasted as good as it smelled; rich, dripping roasted pork with a side of vegetables and potatoes, served with seemingly endless ale and apple pie. (Geralt made a quick mental note to ask for some apples for Roach in the morning.) The inn wasn’t as crowded as the previous one; it was quiet as they headed out to the shore. It wasn’t early, but the sun set late here, and the sky was still blue.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” Jaskier yawned as he sat down in the dunes. “Don’t know the last time we’ve been anywhere with good pie.”

“You’ve certainly had enough of it to last you another two months,” Geralt snorted, sitting down beside him.

Jaskier chuckled. He stretched, patted his belly, which looked a little bit softer now than it had an hour ago. “Yeah, you’re probably right. We should stay here for a while though; it’s nice.”

“We’ve already paid for three days,” Geralt reminded him. “Enough to give Roach a break. And then you’ll have to do some performing if you want to have enough coin to stay longer; there aren’t any monsters around here right now. Seems another Witcher came through a few weeks ago, cleared them off.”

“Hm. I think I can manage earning enough for that,” Jaskier said with a smile. “I’ve always been quite popular around here, you know—I mean, other than the old dad back at the other inn. And I _did_ sleep with his daughter, but who was I to know that she was to be married the next day? She never said anything about it, so it’s hardly my fault.” He sighed, looked out across the water. “Anyway, that’s all behind me now. All the whoring around, all the flirting—well, that still happens sometime, but I never mean it—all the running naked from bedrooms…‘cause I’ve got _you_ now, Geralt,” Jaskier said, and his voice was soft. “And you’re all I want.”

A light breeze blew across the water towards them, bringing cool air with it. It rustled the leaves of the bushes flanking their small stretch of beach, brushing sand up against the rocks that extended from the walls of the inn into the water. Geralt could hear distant laughter on the other side of the rocks; a young couple, declaring their affection for another out to the empty skies, joyous and exuberant until they retreated to their room not too long after.

He glanced at Jaskier; there was a wistful smile on the bard’s face. “I’ve been thinking of writing a song about you,” he said.

“You’ve already written many songs about me,” Geralt said.

Jaskier shrugged. “So then, what’s one more? But the songs are all about all these dramatic exciting things you’ve done. Killing monsters and saving people. Nothing about your soft—”

“I don’t have a soft side,” Geralt growled, which was a blatant lie and they both knew it.

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier laughed. “I won’t write about that. Don’t want you ripping the ears off of anyone who happened to hear it.” He paused, bit his lip. “But what if it was _just_ for you? I’d play it just for you, Geralt, no one else would have to hear it. It’d just be us. How’s that?”

Geralt grunted.

“I’m going to do it,” Jaskier said, taking his lack of verbal response as permission. “Sometime, when I’ve got the right inspiration.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Am I not inspiring you right now?”

Jaskier’s grin widened. “Didn’t say that, Geralt.”

Geralt watched him for another few moments, and then he grunted and looked away. Jaskier chuckled, leaned over and slipped an arm around his waist, pressed a kiss to Geralt’s neck. His breath was warm and ticklish, his lips soft against Geralt’s skin. Geralt hummed, let the bard mouth kisses on him, felt the searching hands run up and down his back, his sides.

Above them, the sun was still shining bright. It would be another hour before it would start to set, and for now, it glittered on the waves, cast warmth on their skin. Jaskier had gone back to the room to bring out his lute and he was strumming it lightly now as they sat on the dunes; the tune was aimless, harmonies wandering, and he was silent.

It was nice. Quiet, calm, peaceful. A place that Geralt knew Jaskier would love to stay, if a Witcher’s life let them settle down long enough. The soft notes from the instrument floated out over the sand, mingling in with the soft rush of the waves as Geralt stretched out on his back, and presently Jaskier set the instrument down at his side and just sat in silence, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, staring out across the water.

Geralt watched him. Jaskier had always been noisy; talking or singing almost nonstop, always moving and doing something, always vibrant and bright (the vibrancy partly due to his gaudy silks). The spells of silence had started after he’d almost died a year ago; he’d withdraw into his thoughts, and Geralt could pull the bard out of them with a soft word or a gentle touch if he needed to, but he usually let him sit in quiet. He knew Jaskier would come back when he was ready.

The sun had begun to set by the time Jaskier broke the silence. “You never tell me you love me,” he said, and he spoke like he was commenting on the lack of clouds in the sky or the soft hiss of the waves against the sand; light, wistful.

Geralt frowned, caught slightly off-guard. “I…I thought it was obvious.”

Jaskier shrugged, picked up a stick and poked at the ground with it. “Well, yes,” he said. “But you never _say_ it. And it would be nice to hear. Sometimes I do need to hear these things, Geralt. It’s reassuring.” He glanced at the Witcher, bit his lip. “I’m a bard, Geralt; a singer, a romantic. I need words—specific words, sometimes; simple words. Not just poetry. It’s how I find my way around the world.”

Geralt’s frown deepened. “Jaskier, you know I don’t like—”

“Don’t like talking about how you feel, I know.” Jaskier huffed. “And I don’t want you to _lie_ about it, if it’s not real then I don’t want to hear it. But if it is, if you _say_ it is…well, it would be nice is all. Just once in a while.” He glanced briefly up at Geralt again, looked back down, shrugged. “Hope it’s not too much to ask. You’ve done so much for me already.”

Geralt was silent for a few moments, and then he sat up. “I don’t like saying I care because I was taught it was a weakness,” he said. “And you know what a Witcher’s life is like; it’s not safe. I’ve lost people I cared about; even Roach isn’t the first of her name. I thought it would be easier to part with them if I never acknowledged how I felt, but—” He broke off; the bard was still staring at the ground, poking absently at it with his stick, and he realized that excuses were stupid, _he_ was stupid, Jaskier deserved anything and everything he wanted—

“But in the end, it doesn’t matter,” Geralt said softly. “Because I do feel it, whether I say it or not.”

Jaskier stilled.

“I…love you, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “And I want you with me, always.”

For a long, long moment, Jaskier was silent. And then there was a flush that spread across his cheeks, reddening to his ears, and he smiled almost shyly. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Geralt growled, but there was no heat to it. He leaned across the small space between them to nip at the bard’s jaw; Jaskier yelped, laughed as Geralt pushed him onto his back and sucked at his throat, gasped as Geralt slipped his hands onto his hot, hot skin and pinned him to the sand.

“I love you,” Geralt said again, and it came easier now, and he loved the flush of Jaskier’s cheeks at the words, the way lips parted in a smile, and Geralt leaned up to catch those lips with his own as Jaskier hummed and yielded and melted under his hands.

“Never leave me, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered against Geralt’s mouth, fingers brushing his cheek with a tenderness like feathers.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Geralt said, sucking on Jaskier’s bottom lip, rucking up the bard’s shirt, tugging at the waist of his trousers. Jaskier shuddered, body lithe and powerful beneath him as his shirt was removed and tossed aside to expose smooth, pale skin—

And a scar, stretching across Jaskier’s belly, white and webbed, a reminder to the pain he’d suffered not quite a year ago.

Geralt stilled, felt a clench in his chest. It was like his blood had turned to ice.

Jaskier felt it. He frowned, pushed himself up on his elbows. “Geralt?”

Geralt swallowed hard. There was a tremble in his hand as he laid it on the bard’s belly, feeling the rough catch of the scar, the dead nerves that would never reawaken. The skin around it was warm and soft and _alive_ , and Geralt focused on that as his throat went tight, focused on the gentle rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the bard’s breath, the slight quiver as he traced the scar, and he lowered his forehead to Jaskier’s chest.

He closed his eyes, drew a shuddering breath, let it out slowly. Calm. He’d seen the scar dozens of times before without more than a clench of teeth, but it felt different this time. This time, the memory was fresh again, the panic resurged after he’d seen the man holding Jaskier against the wall earlier that day, threatening to hurt him, _actually_ hurting him, and now as he looked at the scar it was harder not to think about the blood that had been spilled and how close to death the bard had been, harder not to think about cold hands and wet breathing and how he’d never been so afraid to lose anything in his life. And he _was_ going to lose him, someday, because Jaskier was human and Geralt was a Witcher and Jaskier would grow old in the prime of Geralt’s youth.

Jaskier’s fingers were in his hair, quiet and soft, tugging gently at the tangles. “Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay, Geralt. I’m okay.”

Another shuddering breath. “I love you,” Geralt said quietly, and it was raw this time, aching, and he couldn’t tell the bard what he was afraid of.

Jaskier’s exhale was a huff; almost a laugh. “I know,” he said. He lay back down, pulling Geralt down with him, and Geralt’s head rested on the bard’s chest as Jaskier wrapped an arm around his shoulders. It was strange, to be the one being held this time when every other time it had been the other way around, but it felt safe this way too, somehow, especially when Jaskier bent his outside knee as he shifted to angle towards him, tucking in close. The waves lapped along the shore behind Geralt; the setting sun was blazing orange, turning Jaskier’s skin to brilliant gold, and he was beautiful.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier said quietly, and Geralt could hear the smile in his voice, his attempt to make Geralt feel better, to look after him. “We can fuck later.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. He traced the scar again, feeling Jaskier shiver under his touch, and as he touched him the panic and icy fear began to melt away into something warm, something wonderful, something safe.

He tilted his head to press a kiss under Jaskier’s jaw; Jaskier hummed, and his pulse was strong under Geralt’s lips. “Stay with me,” Geralt murmured, his voice a low rumble, and his fingers were tracing random patterns now, still catching over the scar but less troubled by it, knowing Jaskier was safe, knowing he was whole, knowing he would remain that way.

“Tell me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, cheeky as ever, and the smile was still in his voice, “where the fuck else do you think I could go?”

Geralt kissed Jaskier’s neck again instead of answering, rested his palm flat on Jaskier’s belly, feeling the subtle flex of muscle as he breathed, as he shifted to press up into Geralt’s touch. Jaskier’s hand came up to cup Geralt’s jaw as Geralt sucked marks into Jaskier’s throat, his lips parting in shuddering breaths as Geralt’s palms pushed over the smooth softness of his belly, the firm arches of his ribs, touching him and mapping him like he’d done so many dozen times before.

There was a bit of teeth in Geralt’s kisses now, a scraping of rough stubble, and Jaskier gasped and shuddered as Geralt’s hands roamed over his body, feeling the catch of hair on his chest and low on his stomach, feeling the firm muscle under a thin layer of soft, finally finding their way to the heat between shaking thighs.

“Ohhh boy, oh Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice unsteady and breathy, as Geralt palmed him through his trousers, finding his length and rubbing along it slowly, smoothly, languidly, “always such a tease, _fuck_ —” He broke off with a sharp gasp, biting his lip, body tight and coiled like a bowstring as Geralt gave him a light squeeze, fingers searching for the shape of him under his silks, and he was shaking, canting his hips, muscles flexing in his belly and sides as he pushed into Geralt’s palm, begging for more friction with his head thrown back to expose more of his throat to Geralt’s mouth—

“We can fuck now, if you want,” Geralt murmured.

“Yes,” Jaskier said immediately, his voice already wrecked. “Oh, yes, please, that sounds _sublime_ —”

“Hmm.” Jaskier was trembling, his throat fluttering and hot under Geralt’s lips. “Let’s get you out of this then, shall we?”

Jaskier scrambled to comply, tugging his arm out from under Geralt’s head so he could shove his trousers down around his ankles and kick them off. Geralt chuckled at his eagerness, shifting so that he was positioned above the bard and bending down to kiss him.

“Love you, Geralt,” Jaskier panted into Geralt’s mouth, hands all over Geralt’s body and pulling and tugging at leather, “but you can be so _dense_ sometimes, how can you expect to fuck me properly if you don’t _also_ get yourself out of these godforsaken clothes—”

Geralt rumbled a laugh, nipping Jaskier’s lip and causing the bard to gasp, somehow managing to finesse his way out of his shirt and trousers while still kissing him, his mouth leaving Jaskier’s only long enough to tug his shirt over his head. Jaskier was somehow, impossibly, _always_ horny, and Geralt found it exceedingly hot, of course, but he also found it rather amusing.

“Gods, Geralt, I need you,” Jaskier panted, flushed and writhing, hands on Geralt’s body and touching every bit of skin that he could reach, fingers light and grasping and warm.

“You have me,” Geralt murmured. He bent down to kiss Jaskier’s chest, mouth over his nipples, lick down his body until he reached the heat between Jaskier’s legs, and shaking thighs fell apart for him as he took Jaskier’s length in his mouth.

Jaskier cried out, back arching up off the sand, fingers fisting in Geralt’s hair. His chest heaved, his breath coming in sharp pants, spitting out a slew of bit-off curses as Geralt sucked at him, pulling noises from the bard’s throat he hadn’t even known he could make. And the bard was beautiful under him, lithe and muscular and writhing, skin flushed with heat and arousal and helpless under Geralt’s touch, under Geralt’s mouth.

Jaskier was _his_. The bard belonged to a Witcher now, and Geralt promised himself that, barring Jaskier’s own will, nothing was ever going to take him away. He’d find a way around anything that tried.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, pulling at Geralt’s hair almost to pain. “You’re so—I can’t—Geralt, you’ve got to stop—”

Geralt hummed, pulling up off him; Jaskier let out a cry, partly of relief, partly of frustration, that turned into shaky laugh as Geralt came up to kiss him again, pressing the lengths of their bodies together and relishing in the heat of Jaskier’s skin.

“That was about to be _embarrassingly_ short,” Jaskier said breathlessly against Geralt’s lips, cheeks hot and flushed, fingers trembling.

“Pity,” Geralt murmured. “I was enjoying myself.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Someone’s feeling expressive right now,” he remarked, still breathless, heart still racing in his chest. “Making up for the past year of silence, are we? I mean, I appreciate it, Geralt, I really do, but don’t push yourself too hard. We don’t want you to strain your vocal cords or anything.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and tightened his grip on the bard as he shivered, tickled under Geralt’s breath. “We’ll see whose vocal cords are strained by the end of tonight,” he growled, and he reached down to the hardness between Jaskier’s legs again, drawing a sharp gasp from between the bard’s lips and another slew of curses as he tightened his grip slightly, drawing out a long, slow stroke.

Jaskier was writhing and panting by the time Geralt thumbed at his head. “Fuck me,” he demanded. “ _Now_ , unless you want me coming before you even get inside me. And that’s becoming a very likely possibility, because—ah, _fuck,_ Geralt—you keep _touching_ me like that and you _know_ how I like it—”

Geralt hummed. “You talk far too much, Jaskier,” he murmured. He pulled a bottle of oil from his pack; Jaskier whined impatiently, flushed down to his chest, and Geralt slicked up his fingers and slid them between Jaskier’s legs.

Jaskier gasped, bucking his hips, shaking thighs falling apart; Geralt positioned himself between them and pressed a finger against his entrance. He pushed in slowly, making sure not to hurt the bard, and when Jaskier was ready he added a second finger, and then a third, scissoring them inside him, stretching him out.

“Come _on_ , Geralt,” Jaskier panted. “I’m ready, just get _in_ me already—”

“Impatient bastard,” Geralt said. He withdrew, leaving Jaskier gasping and shaking with the emptiness, and then he slicked himself up with the oil and pushed inside.

“ _Fuck, Geralt_ —” Jaskier bit out, squeezing his eyes shut, hands flying down to grip Geralt’s forearms and squeezing to bruise.

“Okay?” Geralt asked roughly. He shuddered; Jaskier was tight and impossibly hot, and the flush of his skin was lovely, and Geralt wanted to _move_.

“Yeah,” Jaskier gasped, chest heaving. “Yeah, I’m okay, just need you to move, please—”

Good; they were on the same page. Geralt leaned down and kissed him, drew out and pressed in again slowly, and Jaskier moaned into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut and head tilted back, cheeks a delicate pink, his throat delicate and soft and already bearing the reddening marks of Geralt’s love. His hands were still on Geralt’s forearms, fingers digging into muscle, lips bruised with how he’d bitten down on them to shutter his gasps.

“Let me hear you,” Geralt growled, pressing in again, and his own voice was tight at the bard’s blinding heat, searing the edges of his vision and overwhelming his senses, and he buried his nose in the hollow of the bard’s throat to smell his scent, floral and spice and something richer like oak, burning with arousal. The sun had nearly set now, the blazing fire it had set on the sea fading to a deep, rich crimson, and warmth was slipping from the land but it didn’t matter because Geralt had Jaskier and Jaskier had him and the sand was burning with their heat as Geralt thrust into Jaskier, and the bard keened, voice high and wrecked, and told Geralt endlessly how much he loved him.

“I love you,” Geralt bit out, breath hot on Jaskier’s skin. “Come for me, darling, I want to hear you. Let me hear you.” And Jaskier obeyed, his voice breaking as he came, shaking and near sobbing, leaving hot stripes of white on his belly. Geralt spilled into Jaskier’s body not long after, the bard’s name on lips pressed to a soft throat, body shuddering powerfully until he was spent and the aftershocks had ridden out and the whiteness that had flared behind his eyes had faded.

Jaskier huffed a laugh, breathless, exhilarated, cornflower blue eyes bright as the sky, as Geralt pulled out and collapsed beside him. “That’s…what, four times you’ve told me you loved me in the span of an hour? And you called me ‘darling,’ Geralt!”

Geralt growled, pushing his face into Jaskier’s neck, but it was gentle, tender, loving.

“Alright, alright, I won’t count on this being a habit,” Jaskier said with a smile, and Geralt nuzzled him, breathing in his scent, mixed now with the smell of sweat and sex and…

Sand.

Hmm.

Perhaps that shouldn’t have been very surprising.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, eyes heavy-lidded.

Jaskier tried to tilt his head to look down at him, which was somewhat difficult considering Geralt had his face buried under the man’s jaw, and settled for pressing his cheek against the top of Geralt’s head. “Yes, Mr. Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt hummed, lifted an arm to drape it across the other man’s waist. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll make it a habit.”

He could almost hear Jaskier blinking in shock. “Oh,” the bard said, a little bit breathlessly, and then Geralt felt his lips in his hair, the flush of pleasure in his skin. “That would be wonderful, actually. And this was wonderful. _You’re_ wonderful.” He paused. “Though right now I think I’m getting a little cold and sand is everywhere and I would very much like a bath. That would also help with the, uh, stickiness.” He wrinkled his nose.

Geralt huffed. He was tired now, and wanted to sleep curled around his bard, but he thought he’d do anything Jaskier asked of him. And the bard was right, in the end; they should get cleaned up, because the stickiness really was quite unpleasant now.

Donning clothes again to walk inside wasn’t the most delightful thing he’d ever done over the sweat and sand and stickiness of his skin, but Jaskier insisted that they spare the poor maid a shock when she walked in with buckets of hot water, and _no_ , simply wrapping towels around their waists would _not_ suffice. He’d also remembered his lute as they stood to head in and brought it carefully inside, stowing it safely in its case as the water was filled.

They stripped again to get in the bath, and they washed each other, touches slow and languid, lavishing kisses on bare, wet skin, eyes heavy-lidded and roaming. When they finished, they dressed again for bed and lay tangled with each other in the darkness, pressed together despite the warmth of the air around them.

“Want you with me forever,” Jaskier murmured as he drifted into sleep, his breath a light puff against Geralt’s chest, and Geralt held him close.

“I’ll be here,” Geralt said quietly. The end of a Witcher’s days and the end of a human’s days came at very different times, and the words choked in his throat a bit, to think again about Jaskier’s fleeting youth and the inevitability of time. He’d lost Jaskier once, almost lost him a second time, and he didn’t want to think about the years and years of agony and heartbreak should Jaskier be pulled from his arms for good.

But for tonight, he swallowed down that pain. For now, Jaskier was here, sleeping safe in his arms, and the uncertainty of the future, the problems of mortality, were things that could wait for later. He didn’t know exactly what he would do when the time came that fate would try and tear them apart, but he knew he would find something, because he’d promised Jaskier to be with him always. And if he defied destiny and waged war with the gods to keep Jaskier at his side and fate _still_ tried to take him away—

Well. Then he’d find something else.

There was always magic, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I'll be writing a part 3, I'm pretty happy with where it's at right now. I'll definitely be writing more Geralt/Jaskier though--just not necessarily in this series.


End file.
